The death of Alex Trager
by ozzysgirl
Summary: Just a little something that popped into my head. Of all the characters, Tig strikes me as the most tragic. Not really sure why, he shouldn't, but he does.


I don't own Sons Of Anarchy

Everything comes with a price, nothing is without compromise. The higher the reward, the greater the sacrifice. Nobody knows that better than Tig Trager. He has sacrificed a lot for the three inch strip of fabric stitched to the front of his cut.

He will never be president, doesn't want to be. He's not a decision maker but he can follow orders and his loyalty is unquestioning. It's not arrogance when he says he's a damn good sergeant at arms. He has to be, it's all he has left.

He stands in front of the empty, almost derelict house and wonders where she went. Judging by the state of the place, she's been gone a while. It almost looks like she was never there at all. Maybe that's what she was, just a figment of his imagination, an illusion. It felt real though, in fact, sometimes it was the most real thing in his life.

She was unlike any other woman he knew. It was clear from the first time he ever set eyes on her that she was different. It wasn't just her appearance, although he didn't know any other women who would think to team up flowery sundresses and combat boots. There was an innocence about her. Not naiveté, but an openness and honesty that was rare in the women he surrounded himself with.

They'd met a lifetime ago. He was walking Missy, his German shepherd along by the lake, when her Retriever had come bounding along to say hello.

It was so simple, just two people walking their dogs through the trees and when she'd asked his name he told her. "Alex." He would never know why he did that, why he hadn't said. "Tig." But as they walked side by side towards her ramshackle house overlooking the lake, he guessed that without his cut and his ink covered by his shirtsleeves, he was just a regular guy.

They began to meet regularly, just to walk the dogs and maybe grab an icecream at the picnic area or even, on cool evenings have supper at her place. It was all so normal and, dare he say it, nice.

They talked. Not about the club, he never once mentioned that, but every thing else. He told her about his time in the marines and how it had damaged him. Tig never talked about that.

Tig had got drunk and smashed up the clubhouse after his ex had taken his daughters across the country to get away from him. Alex had laid on her over stuffed sofa with his head in her lap, and sobbed, mourning the loss of his baby girls.

Tig was a deviant in every sense of the word. All but the kinkiest croweaters avoided him. He was open about his liking of hookers and what he liked to do to them. Tig would fuck anything with a pulse, and sometimes, without. But Alex never laid a hand on her, was always respectful and in the years that he knew her, never as much as kissed her.

Tig never did grunt work, that's what prospects are for. Alex fixed her leaking roof, rebuilt the chicken coop and helped her dig her vegetable plot.

Tig was the archetypal sexist pig. Women were good for cooking, cleaning, fucking and little else. He had no interest in anything they had to say. Alex would talk with her for hours, he loved to hear her talk about her work as a writer, or her chickens, or her plans for a wildflower garden. In fact Alex thought she was one of the most interesting people he had ever met.

It couldn't last, he knew that. But he hadn't expected his life to impact on her the way it did.

He hadn't been aware of a tail, didn't even know that the Feds were sniffing around. They were though, and although Tig was paranoid, Alex was not and he'd led them straight to her door.

They'd torn her place apart in their search for the guns. She wasn't just pissed, she was hurt and rightfully demanded an explanation. He had walked back to his truck and put on his cut.

"This is who I am, Doll."

"You should have told me." She didn't raise her voice, that wasn't her way. "I think I'd like you to leave. Please don't come here again."

He hadn't argued, he'd just whistled Missy and climbed back in his truck and drove away.

There had only been one more encounter with her. The day after Missy had died. Tig had beaten Kozic in a drunken rage, he'd killed his dog. But Alex had wanted to weep for the loss of his companion and he'd found himself on her doorstep. She'd taken him in and allowed him to bury his dog under the cherry tree, offering words of comfort, understanding his grief. But when he asked if he could call again, she refused, her hand resting lightly on his cut. Tig would never be welcome here.

It's quiet here, the only sound is the wind whispering through the trees. Tig walks round the back of the house, pushing his way through the long grass to the now overgrown cherry tree. He runs his fingers down the bark stopping at the word "Missy" carved into the trunk. He sinks slowly to his knees. "Hey baby."

Every thing comes with a price, and the price he's paid is high. He loves the club, loves his brothers.

He closes his eyes. He has sacrificed such a lot, his family, his friends, his sanity. His identity.

With a sigh, he pulls out his knife and carves into the trunk of the tree. Alex Trager RIP.


End file.
